


Just You and Me and the Color of the Sun

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anal Fingering, Asexuality Spectrum, Beaches, Canon Compliant, Demisexual Character, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, RvB Smut Week, Schmoop, Shore Leave, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: Shore Leave doesn't come around often for Freelancers. Best take advantage of it while they can.





	Just You and Me and the Color of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just pretend this was posted on time Monday for "Holiday Hook Up" day of Smut Week. Right? Right. Oops. 
> 
> Title is from the song, "Color of the Sun" by Jimmy Buffet, because who else do you go to when you need a beach song to title your fic with.
> 
> Thanks much to Akisawana for the beta and reassuring me that this is, in fact, not shit.

This time, shore leave is a beach.

Literally.

Their door is less than a mile from the high tide line, a mere six steps between the door and sand under their feet. Wash doesn’t have any idea where the rest of them scattered to; the planet they’d landed on for shore leave had plenty of recreational opportunities available for space marines gone squirrely from too much time spent stuck on a ship. He thinks he remembers South yelling something about snowboarding in the southern continent’s mountain ranges this is a good and mildly terrifying detail. He hadn’t really been paying attention. He likes his squad fine, but when it came to vacation… well, he wasn’t exactly in the mood to share. Except for one obvious exception.

Maine had never been on an island before.

The sun is setting in watercolor pinks and oranges when Wash gets back from his run up the beach. He kicks his toes against the wall outside the beach house they're renting, knocking off as much sand as he can before going inside. All the windows are open, and the lights are off. He moves quietly through the house, looking for his companion, but not calling out yet. The bathroom door’s been left open, steam still spilling out to hover in the air. His workout shirt is stripped off and abandoned in the laundry hamper just inside.

He finds no further signs of him until he reaches the threshold of their bedroom, and what he sees makes him still, leans against the doorjamb and smile.

Maine is lying face down spread out on their bed, all nearly seven feet of him, his feet hanging off the end. He gleams in the late afternoon light, the fading glow that manages to steal in through the curtains catching and pooling in the curves and cuts of his muscle. He's fresh out of a shower, bare except for a small towel tossed over his hips and the swell of his ass. Wash traces the long lines of him with his eyes, admiring the look of relaxation on him. They haven't had much time to relax before.

His first step echoes softly in the room, but Maine doesn't so much as twitch. He doesn't move at all until Wash settles into the bed, turning his face towards him. His eyes droop, lazy and pleased, but alert. Heat rises off him, a physical aura hovering over his skin when Wash rubs a hand up and down his forearm.

“Nice shower?” he asks.

“Bath first,” Maine hums in reply. He lifts a hand lazily, showing Wash the wrinkles in his fingers. “Actually fit.”

The tub is kind of a monster. Probably more like a Jacuzzi or something. Whatever. Wash can picture Maine submerged, only his nose to the top of his head rising out. He’s probably only rarely had a tub he could do that in, if he had ever found one before at all.

Wash squeezes his shoulder, keeps doing it when Maine’s eyelids droop in pleasure. He’s relaxed, yeah, but the kind of work and training they do makes homes for knots and kinks deep in their muscles. Maine lets his head sink into the blanket, eyes closed and clearly enjoying the attention.

“Okay, somebody’s asking for it,” Wash says, and swings a leg over to straddle him, settling in for a proper massage.

Maine rumbles in approval and shifts, giving Wash more room to work on his shoulders.

He groans deep in his chest when Wash works the heel of his hand in circles up and down his scapula, digs his thumb into his deltoid enough to be just shy of painful.

“Too hard?” he asks.

Maine shakes his head, happy sigh pouring out of him. Wash feels his own lips curve in reply and gets back to work.

He follows the fall of ruby gold light across Maine’s shoulders, his back, working muscle against muscle until Maine is making quiet noises underneath him. Maine’s skin is smooth and firm, except where it's not. There are fewer scars than you might expect-- the wonders of modern state-of-the-art medicine and his armor, no doubt. But there are scars, rough, or shiny and smoothed, the pucker of a bullet wound and the occasional raised knot of keloid scarring. Proof of his strength, scars and muscle both.

Wash is so focused on the skin and muscle under his hands, on easing the tension and groans out of Maine as thoroughly as he can, that he misses it when Maine’s breath changes. He doesn't notice until Maine shifts and he isn't squirming into his hands this time, a deliberate roll of his hips into the mattress.

Wash stills.

It isn’t something they do often. Maine had never had much of a sex drive, let alone feelings of sexual attraction to anyone, Wash included. And Wash, well. Sex was great. It just wasn't necessary to him the way it seemed to be to other people.

Wash chews his lip thoughtfully, considers his next move. He runs his fingers in light strokes down to Maine's lumbar back, just above where he’s perched on top of him. He presses his thumbs into the dip just above Maine’s ass, curls his fingers around to the jut of his hipbones.

Maine raises his head just enough to blink one dark eye back at him. He looks at Wash and his gaze is warm, content, relaxed, laughing. His gaze says, I am happy here. His gaze says, I am happy in your hands. Whatever you do, or do not do, next.

And he knows that if he doesn’t, if this stays a massage, Maine will press his cheek to the cool sheets and soak up his touch, enjoying every moment of Wash’s hands on him, and it won’t come up again. Maybe jerk off in the bathroom after if he still needs it.

The knowledge that he, that it’s _Wash_ ’s touch that has him like this, open and trusting and wanting underneath him. Somewhere deep in his gut a flame roars to life in answer, heat seeping through him, lighting up every nerve in rapt anticipation.

Wash pushes his palms back up Maine's back, fingers spread wide to touch as much of him as possible. Maine purrs, his eye fluttering shut.

“Yeah?” Wash asks.

Maine purrs again in reply, hips rolling, first down and then back against him. Wash’s breath stutters in his chest.

“Okay, then,” he says, leaning down to stretch his body over Maine’s. “I got you, big guy.”

Maine tastes like soap and like water, the shower still fresh on his skin here, where his neck meets shoulder. Wash kisses him open mouthed, wet. The way he touches him changes, his grip possessive, holding on for longer, holding on tighter. Maine’s breath catches as Wash traces hard fingers down his sides, half a laugh and he squirms. Wash snickers and keeps kissing up his neck.

He wraps his arms around him, Maine shifting to accommodate him as he strokes and gropes up and down his chest. His nipples are already tight and hard against his palms when he skates his hands over them, but he pauses to rub and pinch anyway.

Maine whines low in his throat and bucks in Wash’s grip. It turns into a chuckle when Wash grins against his shoulder. Wash does it again, pinches and rolls the nub between his fingers, switches sides when Maine starts to arch his chest against his hand.

“Wash,” he whispers and then grinds, hard, back against him.

“Want something?” Wash teases.

“Shithead,” Maine huffs into the pillow. “ _C’mon_.”

Hard to argue with him when he asks like that, especially considering what he’s asking for. Wash twists off of him, reaching for the bedside drawer to retrieve the lube (whether they do this often or not, military neat means knowing exactly where everything can be found at a moment’s notice). He sits back on his heels while he generously lubes his fingers, perhaps overgenerously. Maine’s long legs flex, muscles bunching as he parts his thighs, making room for him. All spread out for Wash. It makes his mouth go dry. He trails the fingers of his clean hand up the sensitive skin on the back of his thigh, all the way up to cup his ass, thumb dipping into the crease between his cheeks. A rumbling growl fills the room and Wash smirks. Better get on with it then.  

He circles his rim with two fingers, and Maine's hands fist in the pillows. Maine loves to draw it out, but not like Wash does. Maine loves it slow, but hates _teasing_ and Wash doesn't tease him now, his index finger gently pushing past the ring of muscle and inside. Maine’s lungs heave, his rib cage expanding like a bellows. His shoulders Wash had so carefully worked the knots out of are tight again, although this time with a much different, sweeter tension. Wash keeps up the push until he’s sunk in to the last knuckle and then waits, letting Maine’s body adjust.

Only when Maine nods does he begin to move, thrusting his finger in and out of Maine at an easy, leisurely pace. Circling and stretching against his walls, coaxing the muscles to loosen and Maine to writhe in pleasure against the bed. Maine moans, long and low when he slips a second finger inside, but there’s no urgency in either of them.

There’s no rush.

This is how Maine likes it. Gentle and firm. Steady and deliberate. Slow. Wash rocks his fingers inside of him, leans down to lay kisses against his spine so he can taste the vibrations when Maine shudders.

Wash loves being gentle with Maine. There's something decadent about it, to be so soft with him when they both know how hard he can be pushed, how much he can and would take for Wash. It makes the gentleness feel like something stolen, something luxurious and unnecessary and indulgent, something to sink into for the both of them. Luxury is another thing they have little experience with. Wash wants to wrap Maine up in it, in softness and the luxury of gentle touch.

He kisses up the line of his spine, tongue tracing the places the ruby afternoon light highlights in his journey up the planes of Maine’s back, pumping his fingers inside him all the while. He runs his lips up along the wing of his shoulder, nuzzling into the soft skin below his ear.

“Want another?” Wash breathes against his neck. Maine nods once, twice. Wash slips in a third on his next rock inside, not breaking rhythm at all. Maine sighs into it, into the stretch, neck arching back. Wash nibbles at the shell of his ear, and kisses his way back down, until the angle is not such hell on his wrist.

He stops at three. Maine can take four, but this isn't about seeing how much he can take.

And oh, he is a sight like this. Watching Maine move is always poetry, or if not so elegant, at least some sort of music. An organic harmony of sinew, muscle and bone, whether he be walking down a hallway, or throwing blows in a fight, or working himself back against Wash’s hand, like he is now. Tiny undulations of his hips, urging Wash’s fingers deeper inside of him. Every twitch of his hands or gasping breath sends a new shot of sympathetic pleasure flooding through Wash’s veins. He could happily lose himself here, watching Maine losing himself in simple bliss under his hands.

Maine looks back at him, dark eyes swimming in near-ecstasy.

“Wanna fuck me?”

Wash considers. It'd be the easiest, for sure. To get him off, to get them both off. But is it what he wants?

“Let me finish you like this?” he asks. “I think I want to watch you enjoy yourself more than anything.

Maine sighs an agreement, rolls and pulls him down on top of him and into a kiss, mouth open and slick against his. His erection slides against the front of Wash’s shorts and across his abs, smearing precome as it goes.

Wash wraps an arm around him and twists them over onto their sides, pulling Maine’s thigh up and over his hip.

“Touch yourself,” he orders.

He slides his palm down to cup his ass, kneading there for a moment until Maine does as he asks. Maine’s mouth falls open as he wraps his fist around his cock and begins to stroke. Wash drinks in every little change in his face, the little furrow that appears between his eyebrows as Wash slips his fingers back inside him and resumes his same steady thrusting rhythm as before. The little shocked moans he makes when Wash curls his fingers and manages to brush his prostate. The way he grinds his forehead against the pillow, like he can’t quite stand how good he feels. The way his dark eyes open, liquid and begging Wash wordlessly to kiss him.

Of course Wash does.

Maine is too overwhelmed to participate much in the kiss, his lips sluggish and clumsy against Wash’s own, but it’s still a kiss Wash wants to tuck down below his breastbone and keep forever. He curls his fingers, searching, wrist complaining faintly at the angle. He knows he’s found it when Maine jolts against him, breaking the kiss. Wash lingers on that angle, his fingers brushing and stroking, and he pulls back to take in Maine’s face.

Maine’s eyes are shut tight again, his jaw clenched against the pleasure. Wash brings his free hand up to run his knuckles against his cheek. His heart feels as if it could burst.

Maine presses his face against his palm in answer, leans his whole body in towards him in simultaneous supplication and demand. It’s enough for Wash to wrap his arm around the back of his neck, haul himself closer. Maine’s knuckles drag against his stomach with every pump of his fist stroking his cock, but Maine can press his face against the space between his neck and shoulder. The sounds he muffles there are too low and raspy to be whimpers, but Wash knows what they mean.

“You close?”

Maine nods frantically against his neck, presses an unsteady kiss to his throat.

“Whenever you’re ready, big guy,” Wash murmurs to him. “I’ve got you.”

And he means it. If Maine were to slow his hand on his cock, gentling himself down from the edge to hover longer on a plateau of pleasure, Wash would hold him close and go until his wrist gave out. But Maine doesn’t, wrist twisting and stroking with almost desperate abandon. His hips judder back and forth between Wash’s hand and his own, chasing sensation, searching for that tipping point into euphoria.

Minutes later he finds it, his orgasm breaking like a wave across his body as he paints his fist with thick stripes of come and sobs soundlessly into Wash’s shoulder. Wash eases his fingers from him as he shakes and comes down, lets him ride it out.

Wash reaches over him to retrieve the previously abandoned towel and wiping both their sticky hands before depositing it over the edge of the bed. Once clean he wraps himself around Maine, twining them close together, although careful not to brush Maine’s still sensitive cock. Maine clutches him back, face still buried against his neck, his breath puffing out in warm washes against his skin. Wash watches, feels his breath slowly start to even out, his flanks heaving less with each passing moment. Until Maine presses a kiss to the skin under his mouth, and finally lifts his head.

He blinks twice, slow, at Wash, his eyes glowing with satisfaction and appreciation. Wash smiles at him, soaking in the waves of affection and the contact high of Maine’s afterglow. Maine leans forward and Wash meets him halfway. Maine’s tongue drags heavy against his, long slick slides that make Wash sigh into his mouth, and make both of them clutch each other closer.

It isn’t until Maine presses one thick thigh between his legs that Wash realizes-- he’s still half hard. Maine must notice the hitch in his breath, because the thigh retreats, his hand sliding down Wash’s chest. His forefinger traces the outline of Wash’s cock through his shorts and Wash gasps, arching into the contact despite himself.

“You want?” Maine asks, looking up and into his eyes.

Wash lets loose a shaky breath and nods. He wants.

“Yeah.” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

Maine rolls him over onto his back, bracing himself on one arm near Wash’s head. He’s straddling Wash’s thighs, pinning them down, and there’s something indescribably _nice_ about that. The pressure of him holding him down and secure. His cock hardens at the thought of all the weight of Maine, all that solidness, bearing down onto him.

Maine’s eyes smile down at him, the fading pink and gold sunset light streaming in through the window. It paints him softly, smoothing his edges and illuminating him almost like a flush.

Maine leans down to kiss him, his hand teasing down his breastbone. They both like slow, but Wash almost _prefers_ the tease. When they do this, Maine enjoys taking advantage of that. Maybe too much.

He leans up into the kiss, just enough to feel the strain against Maine’s hold pushing him down. He wants to be kissed again, but he's really in no hurry.

They've got plenty of shore leave left.

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to note that this is NOT the Maine and Wash from my domestic verse. NOT. I tend to headcanon Wash as demi and Maine as floating somewhere on the gray ace spectrum in general, but DIFFERENT VERSES HERE.


End file.
